


Somehow I Don't Think We Hold the Same Connotations

by saliache



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Celebrimbor being scared all the time, Depression, Gen, Ingwion isn't actually a psychologist, Ingwion the psychologist, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, allusions to torture, and reading too deeply into everything, misapplied priorities, okay I lied, sauron accidentally ruining all your faves, self-indulgent sadfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-12-22
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:14:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6381484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saliache/pseuds/saliache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mairon wakes up in Valinor after the destruction of his greater self at the end of the Third Age to find out he has a former elf-smith partner, which is pretty gosh darn cool. Celebrimbor wakes up to find that Sauron is trying to get back into his life, and everybody is somehow okay with that. Trauma ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Catharsis?

**Author's Note:**

> warning for trauma and torture and sustained mental stress so beware

How long had it been since he had left the Halls of Mandos? How long, he wondered, until he sought them out again?

 “Please,” Sauron said. The look on the fallen Maia’s face was sad, grief twisted with regret, his eyes shining in the dim firelight the same way he had looked when – Celebrimbor shut those memories away. “Please, listen to me.”

 Celebrimbor turned away, focusing carefully on the manuscript he was editing, torn between wanting to give Sauron his say and wanting to flee this room before he could be trapped again and suddenly it was becoming hard to breathe-

 “I think,” he mumbled thickly, shutting his eyes to try to force away the panic, “that you should go.”

 “Tyelpe, my dear-”

 “GET OUT!” he roared, seizing the manuscript and flinging it towards his tormentor. Sauron reached toward him with one hand, and Celebrimbor took it and flung it away. “Leave me alone!”

 Sauron’s mouth dropped open - whether in shock or to speak Celebrimbor cared not – and then shut again. “Please, Tyelpe, I won’t hurt you.”

 “Lies,” Celebrimbor ground out, breath coming in sharp, harsh pants. “You are nothing but lies, Ring or no, and I won’t listen to them. I won’t fall for it again.”

 Something in Sauron’s face changed, and then it smoothed out, microexpressions that Celebrimbor couldn’t read flitting across its features. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. _I should have fled_ , he thought. _Now he’ll be angry again. He’ll-_

 When Sauron spoke, his voice was eerily composed. “Very well then,” he said, and left. Celebrimbor watched his back retreat, afraid that he would change his mind. The door closed, leaving him alone again.

 Then he curled up under his desk and wept.

* * *

 His keeper was unsympathetic when Celebrimbor brought up the subject.

 “He has changed,” Ingwion said, carefully stirring pickled vegetables into his rice. “Through your influence, Tyelperinquar. The part of him that you redeemed survived the destruction of the Ring; think of him as the ore that is left after the dross is separated.”

 It was a nice metaphor, Celebrimbor thought. It was one that Sauron would use, not Ingwion who had barely stepped into a forge in his life. He wondered who else Sauron had deceived, who was in turn working to deceive him.

 “I will think about it,” he said, intending no such thing. Ingwion smiled at him, the gesture radiant, and Celebrimbor felt obscenely guilty at the deception.

 “I can ask no more,” Ingwion said, and they turned to their breakfast.

* * *

 Sauron was in his rooms again. Celebrimbor latched the door of the bathroom carefully, listening to the sound of pacing coming from the common room. A quick glance told him that the windows were closed, and he darted away to pull their shades down before returning to his vigil at the door.

 “Is now a bad time, Tyelpe?” Sauron asked. He sounded concerned. Celebrimbor caught the faint scent of tea and spiced nut cakes and wondered why Sauron would bring them. “I can come back later, if you don’t want to see me now.”

  _Please come back later_ , he thought. But no, if he spoke Sauron would know he was here, and if he knew-

 He was a guest in Ingwion’s house, he reminded himself. Even Sauron would not dare do anything here, for fear of revealing himself.

 But Ingwion wasn’t here right now, and no doubt Sauron was growing angrier as Celebrimbor refused to reply. And there were torments that did not leave marks upon the body, and –

  _Go away_ , he thought, until he heard Sauron sigh, and footsteps told him Sauron had gone. The smell of the food he had brought lingered.

 Still. It might have been a trap. Celebrimbor sat in the quiet darkness until he heard Ingwion’s voice calling for him.

* * *

“Why do you persist in refusing Mairon?” Ingwion asked, leaning over to deposit an inordinate amount of dressed greens onto Celebrimbor’s plate.

 “I was not expecting his presence in Valinor,” Celebrimbor admitted, carefully poking through the mess of leaves to see if he could find any beets. “After I was reborn…”

 “It must have been difficult,” Ingwion said pensively. “To find the one responsible for your death roaming free.”

 Celebrimbor wondered if others thought the same about his people – his people now, no longer just the followers of his grandfather. He wondered what they must think of him now, to have led them into such ruin. “No more than others must have found it, I imagine.”

 Was it just him, or had Ingwion frowned, just for a second there?

 “No doubt,” Ingwion said, but his voice was cool and he did not continue.

 “I was deemed fit enough to be allowed back from the Halls,” Celebrimbor said defensively. Ingwion made no reply, and he returned to taking apart his meal, trying to ignore the guilt gnawing at his stomach.

* * *

 “Wait!” Sauron called, dashing across the hallway. Celebrimbor froze just a fraction too long, and hands closed over his, keeping the door open.

 “Thank you,” Sauron said, smiling. “You look well.”

 Did that mean it was time for new torments? Celebrimbor blocked out the image of Sauron walking into his cell, and forced a smile onto his face.

 “I… am well,” he admitted reluctantly. Thankfully, Sauron made no move to drag him away.

 “I am glad to hear that,” Sauron said, mirroring Celebrimbor’s smile. “Do you mind if I bathe in here as well?”

  _No!_ But to say as much would be to risk censure, or worse.

 Celebrimbor let his smile fade as he thought carefully. “I cannot deny you,” he said slowly, watching Sauron carefully.

 Sauron’s smile faded as well, replaced by disappointment and something else Celebrimbor couldn’t recognize. “You are welcome to join me, however,” he was quick to reassure. “The bath is large enough for the entire wing, and Ingwe would not appreciate such a horrific breach of his hospitality.”

 Sauron smiled and leaned over, lips brushing against Celebrimbor’s forehead. This time Celebrimbor could not suppress a flinch, and he slammed into the half-open door before he managed to catch himself.

 A hand at his elbow helped steady him; Celebrimbor looked at him, but Sauron was carefully analyzing the room, as if for a new and inventive tool of torment.

 “Why don’t you come in,” he said, bowing deeply. If he could distract the Maia long enough, perhaps he could make his escape, or at least prevent _too_ much pain.

 “Thank you,” Sauron said, almost purring. A slow, lazy smile lit his face. Celebrimbor remembered seeing it whenever Sauron had thought to give him to the orcs. He remembered the perverse joy Sauron had felt during his degradation and felt sickened.

 “It is nothing,” he said, feeling stained. The thought of being touched was unbearable, and he hurried to put himself out of Sauron’s reach. Physical reach, he amended. He could remember the feel of Sauron’s hands all too vividly.

 “Tyelpe,” Sauron said, sadness in his voice. “Why do you fear me?”

 “It is in the past now,” Celebrimbor said firmly, reluctantly pulling his shirt off. There were no orcs here, and the attention of the Valar themselves were upon Sauron. The same way they had been upon him in the ruins of his city. Orcs had chased away the Eagles then; he wondered who would do that now.

 “Tyelpe,” Sauron said. “I will never hurt you. I cannot hurt you. This I swear, in the name of all I hold dear.”

 The water was delightfully hot; Celebrimbor scooped up the soap and began scrubbing. If his grandfather were ever released from the Halls, would even he be able to make a soap that could erase the stains on his fea? Celebrimbor doubted it.

 “Do you want me to wash your back?” Sauron asked, sliding into the water as well.

 Celebrimbor hesitated.

 “I remember you used to enjoy such things,” Sauron added, a plaintive note in his voice. “You said I had wonderful hands.”

 Hands that had traced carefully over his back, re-opening cuts and freshening bruises, and the painful salve of orc-poison against injured flesh and muscle. Hands that pushed him underwater, and held him there as he struggled to escape. Hands that held him down and cut pieces of him away.

 “Your hands are incomparable,” Celebrimbor said honestly. “I could not forget them if I tried.”

 Sauron seemed to take that as an assent. He uncapped a bottle, and the scent of pine and juniper filled the air. Celebrimbor had loved that smell. Sauron pulled his hair out of the way, and warm liquid dribbled over his shoulders. Long, unfamiliar fingers traced familiar patterns over his skin.

 “You are so tense,” Sauron marveled, testing the give of his flesh. Celebrimbor forced himself to adopt a relaxed pose. “I hope I have not lost my skill in this.”

 “You have not,” Celebrimbor said stiffly, forcing the words out of his mouth. The scent of pine and juniper was overpowering now, making him dizzy and faintly nauseous. The water was hot enough to be painful in Sauron; the heat radiating from the Maia’s body was incredible. Celebrimbor took a deep, shuddering breath, bowed his head, and tried to relax.

* * *

 Sauron was attentively gracious; he plied Celebrimbor with cold drinks as he spoke, reminiscing about one barely-remembered thing or another, and it was all Celebrimbor could do to bring himself to nod in agreement.

 “Is this conversation not enjoyable?” Sauron asked finally. “You have not relaxed, and your expression is not pleased. Was it the wine?”

 Celebrimbor drained his cup and poured himself another; his head was beginning to swim with what he suspected was drunkenness and not a surfeit of heat. He wished he could tell, but he no longer had his old way with flame. Sauron had taken that from him.

 Celebrimbor put the cup down carefully. Drunkenness must have loosened his tongue, for he replied, “No. I have not.” A small part of him welcomed the censure; welcomed the certainty of pain, relished the thought of ending the interminable waiting game.

 Sauron looked stricken. “You did not?” he asked, upset.

 “I have no cause to dislike your choice of conversation topic,” Celebrimbor mumbled, burying his face in his hands. The pain to come would be terrible, but it was a relief to finally say what he thought. Besides, he was in Valinor – surely someone would come to his aid sooner rather than later. Unless they approved of Sauron’s deeds. He shoved that thought away.

 “I have upset you. What did I do?”

 He remembered Ingwion’s words. _The Valar have given him a second chance. He remembers you, and the good you did in Eregion together. It is their hope that your presence will lead him back to his proper path, and redeem him._

 “Everything,” he said. “Everything.”

 “Tyelpe?” Sauron asked, frowning.

 “Go away,” Celebrimbor said, feeling very tired. “If you care at all, please, leave me.”

 He heard the swirl of water as Sauron pulled himself out, then footsteps and the sound of the door closing as he sank back into the water. He really was very tired.

* * *

 Sauron must have spoken to Ingwion in the night. Breakfast was a cold affair. Ingwion’s disapproval was palpable, and Celebrimbor couldn’t bring himself to break the silence. He wasn’t sure how he could explain himself.

 Finally, as they cleared away the dishes, Ingwion spoke.

 “Mairon has asked for a transfer,” he said. “To Tirion, so that he may make his apologies to the ones he has wronged there.”

 “I am glad he is taking responsibility for his actions,” Celebrimbor said.

 “What did you say to him?” Ingwion asked. “He was very… distressed.”

 “Nothing that was not true. Are you upset with me?”

 Ingwion sighed. “No,” he said finally. “Although the circumstances worry me, I am glad to see you have an effect on him.”

 Celebrimbor was not. 

“Thank you,” he said anyways. He hesitated, uncertain. “May… may I go to Tirion as well?”

 Ingwion frowned. “I am not sure that is a good idea,” he said slowly. “The old divides are still present there, and many would not welcome you.”

 “Alqualonde, then,” Celebrimbor said. “I could make apologies of my own.”

 “You are not your fathers, and you needn’t apologize in their stead, when they would not apologize of their own accord.”

 Celebrimbor kept his mouth shut after that.

* * *

 Ingwion took him to see Valimar. For the occasion he had presented Celebrimbor with new clothes; a long coat, trousers, and headwrap in the Vanyarin style. The fabric was heavy with unfamiliar embroidery, the words of a paean of praise repeated over and over in careful, tiny stitches.

 With his hair tucked away Celebrimbor could almost pass for Vanyar. He tried to imitate their dancing, rolling walk, in tune with the song of the bells, but with only minimal success. Occasionally, he caught glimpses of other Noldor attempting the same, which gave him a perverse sense of accomplishment.

 Still, it marked him out. He would not be able to blend in, to hide in Valimar successfully. And – yes, he thought, keeping careful watch of the shadows – the birds were watching him.

 “When you were young,” Ingwion said. “The crows would speak of you, hidden away in Formenos. Before the Darkening, I – we – Indis spoke longingly of you. She wanted to show you everything. Valimar. Tirion. The Trees.”

 “I have seen the Trees before,” Celebrimbor admitted. “I snuck away when I was fifteen. The crows showed me a path through the mountains.”

 Ingwion laughed at that. “That must have been quite the trip! No doubt the sons of Feanaro were distraught at your disappearance.”

 Celebrimbor shrugged. “Enough that I never attempted anything similar again.”

 “I can imagine.” Ingwion sobered. “I wanted to show you this place,” he said, leading them into the heart of a miniature, ancient forest hidden amongst ground too steep and rocky to provide good building space.

 “Where are we?” Celebrimbor asked, curious despite himself.

 “This is the beginning of the path to the top of the mountain,” Ingwion said, pointing out the weathered markings of an ancient trailhead. “Pilgrims use it to seek audience with the Valar.”

 Or desperate Elves fleeing the wrath of a fallen Maia. “Thank you for showing me this,” Celebrimbor said, touched.

 Ingwion smiled at him, and Celebrimbor found his mouth stretching to smile back.

* * *

 It was amazing how much more bearable life was without Sauron’s presence. Celebrimbor fell easily into the routine of Ingwion’s household. Truth be told, he enjoyed the distractions of daily life and the small challenges and triumphs of exercising his skills once more.

 Once Ingwion asked him to write a letter to his step-grandmother. He remembered Ingwion’s speech at the trail at the top of the city and added as much joy and gratitude as he could to his words.

 Another time Ingwion asked him to send fond regards to Sauron. After much trial and error he sent a small poem of the sort he and Sauron had once written to each other on small pieces of foolscap and hidden around the forge, before he had been imprisoned and the notes had become of another sort altogether. He asked the messenger to hide it amongst the other missives, but he doubted she would do as he asked.

 “A love-note?” Ingwion asked when Celebrimbor told him. “I had not figured you for one to write love-notes, nor hide them in forges.”

 “Love makes fools of us all,” Celebrimbor said dryly.

* * *

 He turned the corner, and suddenly Sauron was _right there_ , brilliant and golden and laughing in the sunlight.

 “Tyelpe!” Sauron called, crossing the distance to clasp him in a hug. Celebrimbor could smell the tang of fire and iron on him, and shuddered. A hand came up to caress his cheek, and he shuddered again at the touch. “You are looking well.”

 He was looking well? Celebrimbor thought about his clothes, but could not decide what had brought him to Sauron’s attention. Then a thought struck him. Had he been too happy? Was it because he’d gone out, because he’d been talking to other people? Because he and Ingwion – _No_ , he thought. He could not let Sauron get his claws on Ingwion, because if he did to Ingwion what he’d done to Celebrimbor then _oh Iluvatar_ Ingwion, no, it couldn’t happen to him, Celebrimbor didn’t want Sauron to destroy him –

 Sauron released him, and he dropped to his knees, a tiny part of him acutely aware that he was making a fool of himself in front of everyone. Sauron was saying something, shaking his shoulder, but he covered his ears to blot out the sound. There was screaming, and he realized it was him, a strange breathless keening that must have been as pathetic as the rest of him.

 Then Ingwion was there, shouting at Sauron, and he could see anger blooming on Sauron’s face and no please Ingwion he will destroy you please no he can’t hurt you too _no don’t attract his attention_ he can’t hurt me any more than he already has _please don’t hurt me anymore_ I can’t him hurt anyone like me ever again _please please please I can’t do this again_ –

 He flung himself at Sauron, screaming desperately.

 Sauron fell backwards, landing roughly and crying out in pain, but before Celebrimbor could follow up hands were hauling him backward and pinning him down onto the stone – _no let me go let me go letmego_ – and Ingwion was yelling at him, angry at him, and no he couldn’t have been deceived again _please no_ Ingwion had to be a dupe, he couldn’t be in league with Sauron _nononono-_

 Osanwë washed over him, drowning his thoughts in glacial calmness, sweeping the fear away into distant uncaring, and he felt only the barest twinges of horror as Ingwion turned to Sauron and faceless strangers took him away.

* * *

  _He’s a danger to himself and others_ , they said. _He needs to be watched, and carefully_.

 Then he’d been passed on to more strangers, their minds numbing his into submission, and he’d been taken to an empty, empty room, stripped, and carefully tied to the bed.

  _Sleep_ , one of them had sang, her fingers cool against his forehead, _Sleep with dreamless sleep_.

 He slept.

 When he woke up, Ingwion was there, more dishevelled and agitated than Celebrimbor had ever seen him.

 “I’m sorry,” he tried to say, but his throat was dry and the words came out a rasp. He swallowed and tried again. Then he remembered Ingwion turning to Sauron and looked away.

 “You were – distraught,” Ingwion said, and the worry and grief in his voice were so real Celebrimbor could almost believe it. He had to believe it, he reminded himself. Ingwion couldn’t be like Sauron. If he were…

 “I am better now,” Celebrimbor said dully. “I am calm now.”

 “Only because we had to sedate you,” Ingwion said bitterly. “Osanwë and drugs. You’re still sedated.”

 “I’m sorry,” Celebrimbor repeated.

 “No,” Ingwion insisted. “I should have known. I shouldn’t have tried to force a reunion. For that, I am truly sorry, Tyelperinquar.”

 So he had been a dupe after all, and not a conspirator. “I am better now,” Celebrimbor said again, meaning it.

 Ingwion stayed for a while longer, fussing carefully about the cuffs, combing his hair and braiding it to wind loosely about his shoulder, singing to him softly until he fell asleep again.

* * *

 When he woke up, Sauron was there.

 “I have changed, Tyelpe,” Sauron said, touching the bandages around his throat self-consciously. “I promise you that. If… If you truly wish to be rid of me, then I will go.”

 Celebrimbor wanted him to go, but he remembered that Sauron had lied about such things so easily before, so he pretended to sleep until Sauron left.

* * *

 When he woke up, he was alone. His mouth was dry, his head aching with thirst, and he needed to urinate so badly he considered simply soiling himself before rationalizing that he wouldn’t want Ingwion to see him that way.

 He lay there, staring at the blank whiteness of the ceiling, until he fell asleep again.


	2. Celebrimbor Spends the Entire Chapter Naked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> aka. Vanyarin psychiatric facilities and massive boredom, and why continual use of osanwë is not recommended by 1 in 6 Vanyarin psychiatrists

“Tyelpë!” a voice cried, and he opened his eyes to see a very familiar freckled nose, one he hadn’t before seen this side of the Sea.

 “Mirë?” he asked, befuddled, and barely avoided inhaling a stray set of dangling hair beads.

 Mirë drew back, beaming at him. “We were so worried!” she said as Fallë came into view. They were looking good, he noted, both of them wearing fine, heavy cloth rich with embroidery, pinned and draped in finely-wrought jewelry of their own design. Fallë had put on muscle and a distinctly healthy layer of fat. Mirë had regained her customary cheerfulness. Clearly, life in Aman suited them both.

 “You’ve grown your hair out again,” he said to Fallë, who blushed and said nothing and fiddled with the ends of his braids. “You look good.”

 “You’re not,” Mirë said, reaching over to tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear. “We were all so worried. Nearly broke the pact, so many of us wanted to come at once.”

 “Pact?” he asked, worry flashing through him before the osanwë smothered it.

 She winced, and Fallë looked away guiltily.

 “It’s nothing,” Mirë lied.

 Celebrimbor was too tired to argue with them. The memories seemed so far away. In any case, the thought of upsetting his former companions was hurtful. “Of course. I am glad you are well.”

 “The others are as well,” Mirë was quick to reassure him, relief flashing in her voice. “We miss you, Tyelpë.”

 Celebrimbor blinked. “You should hate me,” he said. “You died because of me, or worse.”

 “It was not your fault,” Mirë said fiercely. Celebrimbor wondered how she had the energy for such emotion. Mayhap it was only he the osanwë affected. “We chose to stay by your side, you know.”

 “And mine,” he insisted.

 “No.”

 “Yes.”

 “No.”

 An irritated healer appeared and politely but firmly escorted his guests away. Celebrimbor glanced down. Still naked. Someone had changed the sheets, though. And maybe the mattress. He had a good idea why.

 The healer reappeared, looking much more composed, and opened her mouth to speak.

 “I know,” Celebrimbor told her. “I’m going back to sleep now.”

* * *

 “Are you going to sleep forever?” Sauron’s voice held all the apprehension of a small child.

 “I just might,” Celebrimbor mumbled. Someone was shining light at his eyes, and it was very distracting. “Please stop that.”

 The light went away.

 “My apologies, Tyelpe.” That sounded sincere enough, at least. “I was checking for pupil constriction.”

 “I do believe my eyes need to be open for you to tell.”

 “I can try again if you want.”

 “Please don’t.”

* * *

 “Hello, Ingwion. Indis.”

 “Where are your clothes?” Indis sounded scandalized.

 Celebrimbor eyed himself. “I honestly have no idea,” he admitted. “Have you seen anyone around? I don’t think I’ve taken a piss in… almost a week.”

“Have you been eating?” Indis clucked disapprovingly. “Too much osanwë can addle the brain, you know. It can become very confusing.”

 Celebrimbor grunted. “For the sake of everyone who is listening,” he said as loudly and clearly as he could without venturing into shouting, “I feel like the drawbacks of being tied to my bed are starting to outweigh the benefits.”

 “You tried to attack Mairon,” Ingwion reminded him.

 “He surprised me. I’ll try not to let it happen again.”

 “That’s no excuse,” Ingwion scolded, but there was a definite hint of relief in his voice. Celebrimbor let himself smile for a bit.

* * *

 “Oh, you’re back.”

 Sauron held up a basket of ripe fruit. “I thought this might help you feel better,” he said lamely. “I was expecting you to have the use of your hands, however.”

 Celebrimbor eyed him. “Surely one of the greatest craftsmen of the Ainur could learn how to use a buckle.”

 Sauron coughed. “Yes, well, I seem to have lost that part… among others… when the Ring was destroyed…”

 How curious. “I didn’t realize using common implements was a part of crafting,” Celebrimbor said.

 “They’re not,” Sauron explained, still apologetic. “But there’s some kind of seal on them, to prevent the use of Song on them, and I don’t have enough strength to break or circumvent it.”

 Celebrimbor thought longingly of burying his face in his hands. “Use your _hands_.”

 “I – oh. Ohhhhh.”

 Sweet Eru, it looked like destroying the Ring must have done a number on Sauron’s intelligence as well. Assuming he wasn’t faking it, of course.

 The cuffs weren’t meant to be unlockable to everyone, only the patient. Celebrimbor waited as they were released, first on one hand, then the other. He sat up and reached for his ankles, only to be stopped when a plate of finely diced fruit was placed into his hands.

 “Thank you,” he said reflexively, balancing the plate in his lap. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my clothes anywhere? Or maybe a bathroom. Glory hole. Chamber pot. Whatever they’re called around here.”

 Sauron mouthed the words ‘glory pot’, a slightly stupefied look on his face, before shaking his head. He handed a fork to Celebrimbor.

 The fruit was very good, even the unfamiliar ones. Celebrimbor began wolfing it down, unmindful of his manners. It had probably been a while since he’d been fed.

 Sauron was explaining to him the properties of the unknown fruits when the door opened and the healer from earlier stepped in, an outraged expression slowly suffusing her features.

 “He’s not supposed to have solid food!” she cried. “You’ll give him the runs!”

 Celebrimbor leaned in conspiratorially to Sauron. “We should run away about now,” he whispered.

 Sauron nodded once, then flipped the basket of fruit in the air, scooped him up, and all but tore a hole in the wall exiting the room.

* * *

“Do you see now why we wanted to keep you in your room while we were looking into your mind.” The healer finished bandaging his hand up and moved on.

 “Yes,” Celebrimbor said meekly. Not so far away, a pair of not-quite-familiar healers were singing more emotion-numbing into the room. They looked like the pair who had dragged him from Ingwion, but their voices were different and in any case they were hooded, with their backs toward him.

 “You attempted to shove a pineapple into his eyes,” the healer said, shaking her head in disbelief. “If I had not witnessed it myself I would have said it was impossible.”

 “Half a pineapple,” Celebrimbor said, acid blandness in his voice. “It was only half a pineapple.”

 “That’s still half a pineapple too many,” she retorted.

 “I am personally glad it was only half a pineapple,” Sauron called from across the room. There were scratch marks on his face. “If it were a whole pineapple I probably would have lost my eyesight.”

 “You were getting along so well, too,” the healer sighed, shaking her head.

 “I love you still,” Sauron said. His voice was slightly muffled.

 “You have a fine way of showing your love.” Celebrimbor used his good hand to comb bits of fruit from his hair. “Between all the orcs and the torture and the dying I somehow managed to forget.”

 “That wasn’t him,” the healer chided him, pausing in her work. “Not as he is now,  at any rate.”

 “Orcs?” Sauron was curious.

 “You don’t want to know,” Celebrimbor sighed. “It was such a mess.”

 “Of course I do,” Sauron was indignant. “I need to understand, Tyelpe. I need to know how I wronged you, so that I can make it up to you now.”

 Celebrimbor thought for a moment. The moment stretched into two, then three. The healers finished packing but hovered at the edge of the conversation, wary.

 “You really don’t,” he said.

 “No, you misunderstand. I cannot not make it up to you.”

 Celebrimbor felt the calmness descend.

 “Not that,” he said. “You don’t want to know what you did to me.”

 “But-”

 Tiredness descended upon him in a wave.

 “Not now,” he mumbled, already half-asleep.

* * *

Ingwion stood by his bed.

 “You’re safe,” he said sorrowfully.

 “You’re safe,” Celebrimbor replied.

 Ingwion sat down next to him. Celebrimbor slid over to give him space.

 “I’ve been speaking with Mairon.”

 “About the pineapple.”

 “About many things.” Ingwion reached over as if to lay a hand on his shoulder, then hesitated. “I’m sorry. I never – I don’t – I’m sorry.”

 “Why?”

 “I should not have… I am sorry, I truly am.” Ingwion shuddered, face twisting. “I am afraid I can no longer help you, Tyelpe.” He pulled a set of clothes from a bag at his feet. Familiar clothes.

 Celebrimbor lay there, staring at them, trying not to come to a conclusion.

 “On the morrow, I will consult the Valar. If Námo does not welcome you back into his Halls, then I have no doubt that Estë or Irmo will into their Realms.”

 “You’re giving up.” On me.

 Something in Ingwion seemed to break, and he slumped a little. “I was tasked with watching over and guiding Mairon,” he said. His voice was gentle. “Not you.”

 “You’re abandoning me,” Celebrimbor said. This couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be.

 “I’m sorry,” Ingwion said. 

Celebrimbor wanted very desperately to do something. Throw the clothes back at Ingwion, perhaps. Beg him to stay. Beg for a second chance. Demand to know how much Sauron had influenced his decision. He didn’t.

 In the back of his mind was the osanwë, always the osanwë. He let it wash over him, glad - for the moment - of its presence.

 “Don’t be,” he said. Something made him add, "please go away so I can cry in private." 

 Ingwion left.


	3. Change of Pace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even Elvish psychiatric hospitals aren't perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been just over eight months, and I finally managed to hash the rest of this story out. In the meantime, here's this plot-related interlude! (Sorry.)

Living in the House of Healing – run, to his embarrassment, by no less than his grand-(half!)aunt, Findis – was steady, but exceedingly stultifying. The seasons in Valinor varied by geography rather than time, and so each and every day passed with annoying regularity.

 “You do not feel content here,” Findis said one day, apropos of nothing.

 They were picking dandelions in the herb garden, and Celebrimbor yanked the next plant out of the ground with too much force, dislodging roots as well as leaves. With a muttered curse he patted soil back around the base of the plant.

 “And now you are avoiding the question,” Findis said blandly.

 “My studies are progressing well,” Celebrimbor muttered. “Eirë says I have no need to fear my own emotions any longer.”

 “And?”

 “If I am suppressing my emotions then how am I supposed to fear? It is a redundant statement.”

 Findis sighed. “Oh, Celebrimbor.”

 Celebrimbor risked a glance at her but she seemed saddened rather than amused.

 “Those are mental exercises designed to help control one’s emotions in times of duress, Celebrimbor. They were never designed to be used continuously over such a long period.”

 Celebrimbor reached over to pick at the next plant. “They are helping me deal with my emotions. This is a very stressful period of my life that just so happens to be very long. I don’t see why that is so bad.”

 A warm, dark hand steadied the plant he was tugging at. “Because you are masking the symptoms, not dealing with them. And if you do not deal with your emotions, they will fester until you can no longer mask them.”

 Celebrimbor thought of Sauron and shuddered. “I don’t want to deal with him.” 

 “No, I don’t suppose you would,” Findis said. Celebrimbor felt relief wash over him, at once electrifying and relaxing.

 “Thank you,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Thank you for understanding.”

 Indis enveloped him in an enormous hug. “You have outgrown this place,” she said. “What do you want now?”

 He told her.

 She hugged him harder. “I will see what I can do,” she promised.


End file.
